"As a Michelin star chef, Gary was remarkable, taking British cooking into the ascendant reconnecting us with a rich culinary culture to rival that of other nations. Classic cooking with flair and a twist of innovation was Gary’s speciality. As a good friend to all chefs, our respect for Gary was absolute and his popularity was universal. We never heard a bad word said about Gary and likewise, we never heard him utter a word against anyone. Gary will be sorely missed but his legacy will outlive us all.” - Restaurateurs the Roux Brothers.Gary Rhodes (22nd April 1960 – 26th November 2019)
"[At a] time when young chefs were making their mark in kitchens in country houses and hotels... wishing to upend our normally slavish relationship with French cookery and beat the drum for English ingredients and, sometimes, English dishes, Rhodes was one of the most successful, perhaps helped by an engaging personality and punkish appearance." - Food writer and gourmand Tom Jaine.
"We lost a fantastic chef today in Gary Rhodes. He was a chef who put British Cuisine on the map." - Chef Gordon Ramsay.
When you make an amusing pop culture reference does everyone just looks at you blankly? You could be very old. Find out:The Daily Mash
‘You’ve got an ology’
If qualifications or Maureen Lipman come up in conversation, this line from the famous 1980s BT advert may seem apt, but will just confuse anyone under the age of 35. As will the once-famous British Gas privatisation slogan, ‘If you see Sid, tell him.’
Shrinky Dinks
Considered more valuable than diamonds by children in the early 80s, despite just being a bit of plastic you could shrink in the oven with a picture on, possibly a robot from The Black Hole. If younger acquaintances find it hard to understand the entire concept, they have a point.
That’s Life!
TV ‘magazine’ show burned into the brain of anyone over 40. In retrospect, lowest-denominator garbage with a habit of jumping from talking dogs and ‘jobsworth’ gripes to terminally ill children and people getting horrifically maimed by Spanish hotel lifts. Remembered mainly for cock-shaped potatoes.
The SDP
In the current political climate, you may think the Social Democratic Party is a relevant example of a failed centrist party, but mentioning the travails of David Owen, Shirley Williams, Roy Jenkins and the other one will make you sound older than Dracula.
Chopper bikes
Attempted to make a double-entendre based around the popular child’s bicycle the Chopper, and now trying to explain what one was to an unsmiling 28-year-old woman in HR? Maybe don’t try to do that again.
Blake’s 7
A great way to prove you are old and a hopeless geek to boot. Any normal young person will have no idea what Terry Nation’s overambitious sci-fi series was, and, if they look it up on YouTube, wonder how the 1970s were survived by anyone.
...by day. By night, I am Glamrou, an empowered, confident and acerbic drag queen who wears seven-inch heels and says the things that nobody else dares to.They [chosen adjective] were marvellous - from the opening gambit: "How proud I am to be appearing in this - erm - foyer!" to the readings from their book Unicorn: The Memoir of a Muslim Drag Queen, we were in fits of laughter!
Growing up in a strict Iraqi Muslim household, it didn’t take long for me to realise I was different. When I was ten years old, I announced to my family that I was in love with Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. The resultant fallout might best be described as something like the Iraqi version of Jeremy Kyle. And that was just the beginning.
This is the story of how I got from there to here. You’ll read about my teenage obsession with marine biology, and how fluid aquatic life helped me understand my non-binary gender identity. You’ll read about my scholarship at Eton college, during which I wondered if I could forge a new identity as a British aristocrat (spoiler alert: it didn’t work). You’ll read about how I discovered the transformative powers of drag while at Cambridge University; about how I suffered a massive breakdown after I left, and very nearly lost my mind; and about how, after years of rage towards it, I finally began to understand Islam in a new, queer way.
Most of all, this is a book about my mother, my first love, the most beautiful and glamorous woman I’ve ever known, the unknowing inspiration for my career as a drag queen – and a fierce, vociferous critic of anything that transgresses normal gender boundaries. It’s about how we lost and found each other, about forgiveness, understanding, hope – and the life-long search for belonging.
...And then Lydia Belmont won.With his lilting Swansea baritone, Mr Davies had the silent enraptured audience in the palm of his hand.
Lydia. Daft, dyed-blonde Lydia, a cook in Henrik's Third Floor Green Glade Cafe. She was in charge of the Catering syndicate and had used the same numbers for years, a combination of her house number and various birthdays, including Chris Rea's, the fourth of March.
She'd won on the Wednesday draw. But no-one had noticed. Everyone assumed Bernie would have told them if there was good news. But bad luck is ingenious; that Friday was Chris Rea's birthday, so Lydia had naturally turned to her Lottery numbers, and she'd dug yesterday's paper out of the bin the check the results...
Uproar in the Green Glade! Tears! Hugs! Envy! An impromptu little party was held in the food preparation area, to which Bernie was summoned. He was told that Lydia Belmont had won the rollover jackpot of £16.2 million.
"Amazing!" said Bernie. "Blimey! Wonderful!" And then, "Goodness me!" He added that hadn't got round to checking the ticket because there'd been that leak, in the basement, of oil, which was tricky, obviously, but never mind, her ticket was safe and sound, locked away, in his office, don't you worry. "Let's go and get it!" cried Lydia, but Bernie said no, it was actually inside the safe and that was the best place for it, because if she had it in her hand now, oh, she'd wave it about and rip it and get it wet and lose it, and anyway, he added, with a sudden burst of inspiration, the safe was on a timer and wouldn't open till 8 o'clock tomorrow morning, so that left her free to get drunk and be merry, and then on Saturday, at 8.01am precisely, he could hand over the ticket, perhaps in a little ceremony of sorts, and then Lydia's new life could begin, how did that sound?
A string of lies, to buy Bernie Wilson one more day. And he would use that day well.
He'd burn down the shop.
Friday night. Bernie was alone. He knew what to do. Like any British employee, he had spent many hours trying to work out how to raze his workplace to the ground.
First, he had to get his story right, and one thing kept bugging him. Would a ticket inside a safe survive a fire? Would the metal melt? If not, would the temperature inside become high enough to ignite paper? Or merely bake it? And what did baked paper look like, would the numbers still be legible? Hmm. Interesting. Okay, he'd have to burn some papers and place the ashes inside the safe, and then lock it, so that, if the safe survived, it would look as though the lottery ticket had disintegrated. That worked, didn't it? Yes, thought Bernie, he was getting good at this! ...
...Then he heard a creak.
He looked around.
No-one.
Only a wall of half-dressed shop-window dummies, staring at him with blank eyes.
So Bernie turned back to the fuse box. He prised open the grey metal covering. And then his entire life changed, shortly before its end.
The inside of the box was... alive.
The fuses couldn't be seen, buried beneath... fingers. A thousand long, thin, writhing, pink fingers. They swayed and poked the air as if someone had spread a sea anemone across the box with a knife. He realised they were growing somehow, visibly thickening as they began to spill over the edge of the metal. Bernie reached out to poke the centre of the mass...
And then he knew something was very wrong, because he had never felt anything like it before. The squirming mass felt hot and cold, dry and wet, smooth and spiky, fleshy, and yet sort of... plastic.
It felt like nothing from this world.
He pulled his hand back in shock, and his mind was thundering now, taking in many things at once. The feel of that thing on his fingers. The slurp of the tendrils as they surged out of their nest. That he'd never sent that letter to Erica Forsyth, the one in his bedroom drawer, written and hidden 20 long years ago. And that someone was now standing behind him, too close.
He turned around to see some bloke dressed as a shop-window dummy, with a plastic mask over his face, wearing 501s and a bright yellow t-shirt. he was raising his hand up above Bernie, his palm flexed wide open as though preparing for a karate chop.
Nothing in that moment made sense. The fuse box. The fingers. The dummy. He saw that our stories are only part of bigger stories, and that the stories around us a are so vast, we will never know our place in them, or how they end.
Then the arm swung down.
We loved her!
Joan Sanderson (24th November 1912 – 24th May 1992)
It's a, it's a, it's a... Wedge?Bizarre - and I still love it!
Now here is an oddity...
"Drimble Wedge and the Vegetations" was an inspired "Swinging Sixties" creation of Messrs Cook and Moore. Does anyone else think this may have been an influence on Mr Neil Tennant?
Producing carbon emissions that impact the environment is an unfortunate side effect of simply being alive, it has emerged.The Daily Mash
The groundbreaking discovery was made by scientists observing any living thing at any time, but most especially humans wearing clothes, putting the heating on or ordering Dominos on a Friday night.
Professor Harry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “You know carbon dioxide? That thing that’s causing global warming? We literally breathe it out.
“We’re all walking along like little smokestacks all day long, and that’s before we have heating and cars and Spotify, all of which increase your carbon footprint, as does absolutely everything else.
“There doesn’t seem to be a way out. Solar panels and growing your own vegetables, sure, until you realise how much more efficient nuclear power and factory farming are. While still producing carbon. We are, it turns out, a carbon-based life form.”
Extinction Rebellion campaigner Nathan Muir said: “But what if I eat loads of jackfruit? What then?”
We know the difference between wanking and running, fitness trackers confirmThe Daily Mash
A manufacturer of leading fitness trackers has confirmed the product does not confuse going for a run and having one off the wrist.
FitBit has released a statement informing users that the arm movements are distinctly different so no, you cannot toss off and get your steps in.
A spokesperson said: “The motions are similar, yes. And movement of the hand or wrist in a repetitive motion, linear or circular, will score you a few. But we know.
“You’re not only cheating yourself, you’re giving us a perfect 3D model of your wanking habits and an annual frequency graph. We’ve got all the data, it’s not pretty.
“Everyone does it but, Graham of Bournemouth, eight times in a day is too many.
“And we’ve just been bought by Google. Prepare for your targeted ads to get really uncomfortably specific.”
