Wednesday, 29 July 2009

I meet the Internet, Part 1

You know how, usually I spend my weeks crouched in the squalor of our back room in front of an overheating laptop? With only forty three bags of chocolate buttons and a sad eyed weepette for company? Well not this week.

In the last week, I have been Meeting The Internet. This is the first in an occasional series when I try to exit my hermitage and communicate other than through a series of wordless grunts. Very occasional. My face is hurting from all the actual words I have been forced to form using muscles in it. Also, I can't imagine it can have been very edifying for the internet (sorry, internet).

Let me summarise thus far.


The victim: M
The location: Various sites, Paris
Consumed: every cake in Paris, noodles, stolen truffles (E: Ooh are these all for us? M: Er, no dude E: Oh well, too late now), a cocktail made out of liquidised Mr Kipling cakes.
Sample conversation:
"Ugh, that white dread is slithering down the street after you! Imagine it crawling into your eye socket!"
"It's gone up your nose and INTO YOUR BRAIN. Cockstump"


The victim: Lydia
The location: The Parc d'Egmont, Brussels
Consumed: Chocolat chaud
Sample conversation:
"So are you SURE I can't do the wielding of giant mechanical arms and hitting people with dried herrings at the leper festival?"
"Quite sure. Now how will I obtain a Chartreux potato cat when I speak no French?"


The victims: Mrs Trefusis, The Artichoke Queen
Location: Tinis, Walton Street, London
Consumed: Cocktails, various. Sushi, mountains.
Sample conversation:
"I can't feel my head anymore"
[Apologies, I have only a hazy recollection of this. Think cackling harridans and the kind of thing that cackling harridans talk about. Only Mrs Trefusis is far too elegant to cackle.]


The victim: Lucy with a Y
Location: South Bank
Consumed: Noodles, a "Canadian margarita" [Ed's note: not wholeheartedly recommended. Vanilla tequila, lime, maple syrup, cinammon sugar, Beavers, Lumberjacks. Smelt like a cheap Christmas candle, tasted of 1950s cough syrup before they realised so much alcohol might not be good for babies]
Sample conversation:
"So I said to her 'There is no way I am taking delivery of a box of ferrets until I know precisely why he wants them'"


The victim: Robbie
Location: Patisserie Valerie
Consumed: A shitty cappucino (Pat Val! What happened?)
Sample conversation:
"A greek chorus of blog commenters? With funny glasses?"
"Show me the live Great Dane board game again"

And more tomorrow. Beware, internet. I have left my grotto! I am attempting to socialise! It will end verrrry verrrry badly.


Fat Controller said...

Come to Denmark! We can offer dried herrings, continual drizzle and all the shops are currently having a slutspurt

Mwa said...

Sounds like a very tiring pursuit, this meeting the internet thing.

Red Shoes said...


Am very proud of you for venturing forth, Jaywalker. Now, if only I could find a way to do the same. Would probably work better if the bloggers I read weren't all in freaking Europe!

Anonymous said...

Canadian margarita??? I've been a Canadian my whole life and have never, ever heard of such a concoction. It sounds absolutely vile. We make pretty good beer, though - except that my favourite beers are all Belgian. (What is wrong with this picture?)

WV - Phagra. Ohhhhh, I thought it started with "vi", not "ph" ...

WrathofDawn said...

Meh. That Canadian Margarita sounds foul. Like Pinklea I have been a Canadian my whole life (so far) and have never heard of such a heinous concoction. She's right about our beers, though. Despite our coureurs de bois heritage, they are not nearly as sex-in-a-canoe-like* as American** beer.

*f'ing close to water.

**apologies to any Americans reading this.

The Spicers said...

I'm jealous!
If you ever make it to Boston, ring me up.

DameEmma said...

If you put rye in the Canadian margarita, it would be a) more Canadian and b) worse.
NOT world-famous for our cocktails, us Canadians. But you could come anyway. Beavers galore.

livesbythewoods said...

The Canadian cough syrup brew grew on me, one the initial horror faded. Not sure I'd have another one, but at least it took my mind off the Lady With A Box Of Ferrets problem for a while.

And it was lovely to meet you!

Juci said...

Yay! Can we be next please? Although I'm hardly post-worthy, and way too boring for such interesting conversations.

Lucy Fishwife said...

Me me me me next! Assuming you're still this side of La Manche. Can't promise cocktails but will draw you a lovely crayon picture on my placemat.
WV = sking. Skiing for people with no spellcheck

Jon in France said...

Canadian margarita? We could come up with a Belgian one! Let's see: jenever, obviously. And then we could take a kilo of Brussels' sprouts, purée them, strain the resulting sludge through a muslin to extract the juice, blend this with the gin, add a scoop of mayo and garnish with a chip.

That should do it.

fabhat said...

Perhaps you could do a group session for the rest of us - or we could draw lots to meet you and drink hemlockatinis?

Hope London is still treating you well, despite the raaaain.

tigerbaps said...

How's about a Scottish cocktail? I can recommend a 'Buckie' Fizz. This is made from a bottle of 'Buckie' (Underage Glesgae neds' ASBO inducing alcoholic beverage of choice see combined with a bottle of cheap sparkling plonk. Voila! Le Buckie Fizz! Combine this with a deep fried mars bar and ten fags and you're all set.

Juci said...

Jon in France, you forgot the moules.

M. said...

Jon in France is a GENIUS.

Where to from here? said...

Jay next time you come walking in london - couldn't we organise a village fete fan club meeting for you to open?

WV: tiou tati is that Jacques' petit neveu

bevchen said...

Aww, I want to eat the internet too. Nobody lives in Germany though, and I can't afford to go to London.

Jon in France said...

I'm sure that when I lived in Antwerp there was a restaurant that served moules cooked with a dash of jenever: Het Elfde Gebode? Something like that. Anyway, that was genius.

On reflection I reckon that Belgium can afford to rest on her laurels with regards to drinks and shouldn't stress too much about making margaritas. Not until the rest of the world can make a passable imitation of Kwak anyway.

Mwa said...

I shall just speak for all Belgians and assure you that we do not worry about the quality of our drinks.

Waffle said...

Fat Controller - please tell me that slutspurt isn't a real word. But with your dried herrings and drizzle you tempt me greatly.

Mwa - no, it's been a total delight. For me anyway, I can't speak for them.

Red Shoes - one day. Perhaps one day I may even leave Europe?

Pinklea and Dawn - It was an insult to your fine nation. I apologise on behalf of the barman.

Iheart - I would love to make it to Boston. LOVE.

DameEmma - yes; it was rubbish already but that would not improve it. beavers though? Hmm. Beavers serving cocktails.

LBTW - you too! I laughed a lot. And that poor man with the pint of Guiness was only slightly terrified.

Juci - yes. It is ridiculous that we haven't met yet. Last week of August when I get back from exile?

Lucy - yes! Back at the end of the month. I want beermat drawings.

Jon - you are one sick puppy. Where's the fucking CHICORY?

fabhat - yes! A gigantic hemlocktini blogmeet where I will get unnecessary and tell you all stuff you didn't want to know, as all previous meettees can confirm.

Tigerbaps - I am going to a wedding in Coatbridge in October. Do you think they will be serving this? I do hope so.

M - you would think that you freak.

Where to from here - we could have a real fête where we all come with hideous vegetable creatures and cakes!

Bevchen - we will have to find you a German blogger to meet. I am SURE there is someone who occasionally comments here who lives in Germany. I'll investigate.

Jon - What is Kwak? Is it chocolate milk? I should know, shouldn't I.

Mwa - no. It's all about the %.

Lydia said...

If I may speak for all the Internet, it was a complete pleasure for us, also.

I have managed to source some potato cats from an innumerate and semi-literate girl living near the slag-heaps of Charleroi.

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