So that was 2011, was it?
Well, good riddance to the smegger. I'm putting it up on eBay but if nobody wants it by tonight it's going right in the trash where it belongs. If 2012 is no better I'm cancelling my subscription.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Dickens Sickens
What the FUCK is going on at the BBC?
This is the 200th birthday of England's greatest storyteller, so how does the state broadcasting corporation celebrate this anniversary? With a desecration of Great Expectations so unholy that South Park's own version was more faithful to the spirit of the original.
I suppose I should have been warned when they changed the ending of Bleak House to make it less creepy for people with no brains, but I had really been looking forward to seeing Gillian Anderson as Miss Havisham after her magnificent Lady Dedlock in the last adaptation.
Things started promisingly enough. Ray Winstone looks the part as Magwitch, but of course he can only play Ray Winstone so things started to go downhill as soon as he opened his mouth (sorry … "marf").
Mercifully, the art director made a good job of the bleak marshes but he may just as well have set the whole thing in a circus for all the good it did.
Okay, so cutting the book down to three hours is difficult and you're going to have to miss out on a lot of atmosphere and character development and even some minor characters. David Lean managed the task amazingly well.
But to entirely gut the book and replace the story with a completely different plot with vapid soap dialogue and a tragically unsympathetic leading man (apparently he models for Burberry and that's precisely how he acts) is a recipe for disaster.
And disaster is what we've got.
Who is credited as the writer?
Surely Charles Dickens?
No …
A TV soap writer who 'did' Holby City and East Enders.
For fuck's sake.
It shows. It REALLY fucking shows.
Picture the scriptwriting sessions:
"The art director has come up with a really pretty butterfly theme for the credits, so let's introduce a completely new character who collects butterflies, sticks them with needles and then dies."
"Yah! It'll be like … er … some kind of metaphor or something."
"And we'll get rid of most of Dickens' boring old characters and write something that'll appeal to twelve year old teen vampire fans. I mean who needs The Aged, or Biddy? Who needs the Pockets or Trabb's boy or Clara's father? They might have been tremendously important to the story but come on, guys, we're writing a soap here!"
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"Yah. Sex it up."
"And Joe's way too simple and dull; let's make him into a boorish thug."
"We want more totty so we'll introduce Clara early and have her swan around and say stupid things like "I knew it was you, Pip. You're such a good friend." like she's on Twitter or something."
"And we want a baddie, so we'll turn Drummle into a scenery chewing stock soap nasty like Phil Mitchell in East Enders."
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"I think we did that already."
And so it must have gone on …
I managed to watch the first episode without smashing my telly, but last night's abortion had me gaping in stunned disbelief at the sheer jaw-dropping audacity of the trash writing on display. Dickens must be spinning furiously in his grave. People who've not read his books will think HE wrote this drivel. This utter crap. This cheap, tawdry teen soap.
Gillian Anderson struggles manfully but is hobbled by dialogue so trite it beggars belief and a re-write of Miss Havisham's character that loses any shred of tragedy or pathos.
I couldn't watch.
I had to keep flicking away to a sub-titled Mongolian movie (true … and which was far, far superior).
Some masochistic urge kept me flicking back, however, but the final straw came when Ray Winstone emptied a sack of cash on the floor …
I know you guys are intelligent and you've all read and enjoyed Great Expectations and a lot of Dickens' other books, too. But a lot of people aren't that lucky. Some people might even think that this bilge is what Dickens really wrote.
If you know of anyone like that, please give them a copy of the book. Make them read it and tell them never, EVER to watch a BBC adaptation of any of Dickens' books.
And don't whatever you do, watch this worthless piece of shit yourself. The final episode is on tonight but my TV will be off; I really don't want to see the alien abduction, the scene where the dog rescues Tiny Tim from the well, to have to guess which one's the vampire and which the werewolf, or to watch the execrable East Enders "Nah! Pip! Don't! He's not WURF it!" vomit any longer.
Celebrate Dickens' birthday by re-reading his books. They're wonderful.
The BBC should hang its head in shame.
This is the 200th birthday of England's greatest storyteller, so how does the state broadcasting corporation celebrate this anniversary? With a desecration of Great Expectations so unholy that South Park's own version was more faithful to the spirit of the original.
I suppose I should have been warned when they changed the ending of Bleak House to make it less creepy for people with no brains, but I had really been looking forward to seeing Gillian Anderson as Miss Havisham after her magnificent Lady Dedlock in the last adaptation.
Things started promisingly enough. Ray Winstone looks the part as Magwitch, but of course he can only play Ray Winstone so things started to go downhill as soon as he opened his mouth (sorry … "marf").
Mercifully, the art director made a good job of the bleak marshes but he may just as well have set the whole thing in a circus for all the good it did.
Okay, so cutting the book down to three hours is difficult and you're going to have to miss out on a lot of atmosphere and character development and even some minor characters. David Lean managed the task amazingly well.
But to entirely gut the book and replace the story with a completely different plot with vapid soap dialogue and a tragically unsympathetic leading man (apparently he models for Burberry and that's precisely how he acts) is a recipe for disaster.
And disaster is what we've got.
Who is credited as the writer?
Surely Charles Dickens?
No …
A TV soap writer who 'did' Holby City and East Enders.
For fuck's sake.
It shows. It REALLY fucking shows.
Picture the scriptwriting sessions:
"The art director has come up with a really pretty butterfly theme for the credits, so let's introduce a completely new character who collects butterflies, sticks them with needles and then dies."
"Yah! It'll be like … er … some kind of metaphor or something."
"And we'll get rid of most of Dickens' boring old characters and write something that'll appeal to twelve year old teen vampire fans. I mean who needs The Aged, or Biddy? Who needs the Pockets or Trabb's boy or Clara's father? They might have been tremendously important to the story but come on, guys, we're writing a soap here!"
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"Yah. Sex it up."
"And Joe's way too simple and dull; let's make him into a boorish thug."
"We want more totty so we'll introduce Clara early and have her swan around and say stupid things like "I knew it was you, Pip. You're such a good friend." like she's on Twitter or something."
"And we want a baddie, so we'll turn Drummle into a scenery chewing stock soap nasty like Phil Mitchell in East Enders."
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"I think we did that already."
And so it must have gone on …
I managed to watch the first episode without smashing my telly, but last night's abortion had me gaping in stunned disbelief at the sheer jaw-dropping audacity of the trash writing on display. Dickens must be spinning furiously in his grave. People who've not read his books will think HE wrote this drivel. This utter crap. This cheap, tawdry teen soap.
Gillian Anderson struggles manfully but is hobbled by dialogue so trite it beggars belief and a re-write of Miss Havisham's character that loses any shred of tragedy or pathos.
I couldn't watch.
I had to keep flicking away to a sub-titled Mongolian movie (true … and which was far, far superior).
Some masochistic urge kept me flicking back, however, but the final straw came when Ray Winstone emptied a sack of cash on the floor …
I know you guys are intelligent and you've all read and enjoyed Great Expectations and a lot of Dickens' other books, too. But a lot of people aren't that lucky. Some people might even think that this bilge is what Dickens really wrote.
If you know of anyone like that, please give them a copy of the book. Make them read it and tell them never, EVER to watch a BBC adaptation of any of Dickens' books.
And don't whatever you do, watch this worthless piece of shit yourself. The final episode is on tonight but my TV will be off; I really don't want to see the alien abduction, the scene where the dog rescues Tiny Tim from the well, to have to guess which one's the vampire and which the werewolf, or to watch the execrable East Enders "Nah! Pip! Don't! He's not WURF it!" vomit any longer.
Celebrate Dickens' birthday by re-reading his books. They're wonderful.
The BBC should hang its head in shame.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
One For Speedway.
Speedway posted a nice video today of Eric Clapton and Wynton Marsalis doing a big band Noo Orleans version of one of my favourite old blues songs.
I know most of you have heard all this crap too many times over the years, but Speedway seems to think you need to be able to read music and have a natural ear to be able to play.
Well musical blindness and deafness never stopped me, so I say pick up a guitar and go for it, girl. It's never too late to start playing the blues (especially in this economic climate).
Here's a completely different version of the song: The Blind Willies (Michael and me) inspired by a Pinetop Perkins '78 record of "44 Blues" just for Speedway.
Sorry about the drop-out in the middle; very old and fragile tape recordings tend to do that.
I know most of you have heard all this crap too many times over the years, but Speedway seems to think you need to be able to read music and have a natural ear to be able to play.
Well musical blindness and deafness never stopped me, so I say pick up a guitar and go for it, girl. It's never too late to start playing the blues (especially in this economic climate).
Here's a completely different version of the song: The Blind Willies (Michael and me) inspired by a Pinetop Perkins '78 record of "44 Blues" just for Speedway.
Sorry about the drop-out in the middle; very old and fragile tape recordings tend to do that.
The Blind Willies
Monday, December 26, 2011
What People Really Wanted This Christmas
While I was over at Mum's yesterday I installed a nerd counter on her blog; the same one that I use. She wants to be able to check and see who's watching, to smile at the little flag over Ohio whenever Robyn pops in and to wonder at the weird places around the world where people have discovered her strange little world of live jazz and cakes.
I hadn't checked my own site stats for months, but when I got home I signed in and was delighted to see my Colonial and European Blogville neighbours' calling cards and even one from Chad. Of course, there were unexplained lurkers in such places as Cambodia, Brazil and - weirdest of all - Canada, and I assume that those are the ones who typed the following phrases into Google to end up on my blog.
If any of my Blogville neighbours want to fess up to using any of these search terms, the time to come clean is now.
This is what people around the world, ON CHRISTMAS DAY - were really looking for …
Oh, and today, so far we've had people looking for "Sheep lungs" and "UFO nipples."
Human beings are really scary.
I hadn't checked my own site stats for months, but when I got home I signed in and was delighted to see my Colonial and European Blogville neighbours' calling cards and even one from Chad. Of course, there were unexplained lurkers in such places as Cambodia, Brazil and - weirdest of all - Canada, and I assume that those are the ones who typed the following phrases into Google to end up on my blog.
If any of my Blogville neighbours want to fess up to using any of these search terms, the time to come clean is now.
Oh, and today, so far we've had people looking for "Sheep lungs" and "UFO nipples."
Human beings are really scary.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Regrets … They've Had A Few
I was amazed yesterday morning to find Kellie still alive. Very pale and exceedingly fragile but alive, albeit moving verrry slowly and occasionally sipping water and groaning softly.
Others trickled in during the morning, the trashed detritus of the office Christmas party. Some didn't make it. Those that did avoided the sunlight and the coffee and indeed any unnecessary movement.
As the morning wore on videos and photos began to circulate (mine were merely innocent fun from before the BIG DRUNK took hold).
I saw horrible dancing. I heard chronic karaoke caterwauling. I saw Dale's trousers split wide open and wished I hadn't. I saw things no sane man should ever be required to look at.
Those survivors who could remember vague snippets of the night before regaled me with tales of sexual deviancy, stinking alcohol vomit and drinking the bar dry so the poor staff had to run out to the pub across the street and buy more.
After that, they hit the night clubs for more drinking and falling over/dancing. At some point in the early hours two of the partners remembered that their wives were due to pick them up at the restaurant at eleven. Those two didn't make it in yesterday.
Rather than face the music they hauled the entire crowd off to a curry house to try to eat the alcohol out of their systems.
No chance. Several tales emerged about the taxi rides home, interrupted by regular stops to redecorate roadside verges and fall over.
At some point in the proceedings Emily's camera went AWOL for a while. It wasn't until late morning when she managed to download its contents onto the server that the penis portraits were discovered.
"My memory card has been violated!" she wailed across the office.
Many were the suspects but none came forward to fess up and Emily wisely declined an identity parade.
You've heard me moan and swear about office Christmas parties for way too many years. Having witnessed another one I shall not be letting up.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Others trickled in during the morning, the trashed detritus of the office Christmas party. Some didn't make it. Those that did avoided the sunlight and the coffee and indeed any unnecessary movement.
As the morning wore on videos and photos began to circulate (mine were merely innocent fun from before the BIG DRUNK took hold).
I saw horrible dancing. I heard chronic karaoke caterwauling. I saw Dale's trousers split wide open and wished I hadn't. I saw things no sane man should ever be required to look at.
Those survivors who could remember vague snippets of the night before regaled me with tales of sexual deviancy, stinking alcohol vomit and drinking the bar dry so the poor staff had to run out to the pub across the street and buy more.
After that, they hit the night clubs for more drinking and falling over/dancing. At some point in the early hours two of the partners remembered that their wives were due to pick them up at the restaurant at eleven. Those two didn't make it in yesterday.
Rather than face the music they hauled the entire crowd off to a curry house to try to eat the alcohol out of their systems.
No chance. Several tales emerged about the taxi rides home, interrupted by regular stops to redecorate roadside verges and fall over.
At some point in the proceedings Emily's camera went AWOL for a while. It wasn't until late morning when she managed to download its contents onto the server that the penis portraits were discovered.
"My memory card has been violated!" she wailed across the office.
Many were the suspects but none came forward to fess up and Emily wisely declined an identity parade.
You've heard me moan and swear about office Christmas parties for way too many years. Having witnessed another one I shall not be letting up.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Some Sensible Architects Share A Meal
After the moustacherie madness of Movember came the Office Christmas Bake-Off …
And after the Office Christmas Bake-Off came the Office Christmas Lunch.
And immediately after the Office Christmas Lunch came the Office Christmas Party, but fortunately (being Dive … see old Christmas Party posts) I managed to skip out before that happened.
First up: the winner of the Office Christmas Bake-Off:
Hail the conquering hero comes! Yes, Adrian (he of the Christmas Village) did indeed walk away with the coveted chef's hat for the 2010-2011 season. Luke (he of the poo-covered dog biscuits) proudly lifted the wooden spoon. Cassie's gingerbread witch's cottage took second place and Erin was too confused and flustered to announce the rest of the results but I shall try to find out where I came later.
And after the Office Christmas Bake-Off came the Office Christmas Lunch.
And immediately after the Office Christmas Lunch came the Office Christmas Party, but fortunately (being Dive … see old Christmas Party posts) I managed to skip out before that happened.
First up: the winner of the Office Christmas Bake-Off:
After that, things became pretty much of a blur …
There was booze …
Lots of booze.
Things started quite sedately with a nice lunch.
The parsnip soup was yummy.
But then Santa came, bearing gifts and … er … elastic band guns.
The man in the Santa hat is a senior partner and my immediate boss.
Staying sober was tricky, but somehow I managed it. This was lunchtime and they'd booked the rooms until eleven at night and a lot of them were then going clubbing. I think it's going to be pretty quiet and lonely in the office this morning.
Girls will be girls.
Some more than others.
Give an architect cranberries and a couple of scoops of ice cream and inevitably there will be boobs.
We're a classy bunch.
Sophisticated humour is our forte.
That, and aeronautics.
Secret Santa shares our exquisite taste.
Willie racing was still going on when I left.
Girls and Guns …
… and booze.
As the cocktails went down the boys got boisterous.
"The name is Bond …"
Those mischievous young scamps decorated their boss's jacket.
Tastefully.
And then the serious drinking started.
And so the more elderly and sedate (and sober) of us left early …
… before the karaoke, the dancing contests and the forfeits got started.
Sheesh … Merry Christmas everybody!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Office Christmas Bake-Off: Part 2
Hokay … Part two of the Office Christmas Bake-Off and it's time to get seriously silly.
Tadaa!
Adrian spent all night making his Christmas Village (and the whole of the previous day fretting and worrying about it) and it's currently the hot tip for the top prize, but we shall find out who won later today at the dreaded Christmas Party.
More of Adrian's Christmas Village at the end of the post.
But first, this is what happens when you DON'T spend all night working on your entry.
Appearances can be deceptive. These are not dog biscuits but are allegedly Christmas Cracker-shaped cookies. The squidgy poo stuff is chocolate, though from the taste I suspect it was cooking chocolate rather than anything edible.
Luke made these and I actually ate one (the down side to being in the competition is that you have to judge EVERY entry, even if you don't want to). It wasn't too bad in a bland, biscuity type of way, but it didn't make me feel at all festive.
This, on the other hand, did. Matt presented us with a basket of yummy stöllen, nice and fat and fruity and with a marvellous marzipan filling. Each individually wrapped and presented in a festive basket presided over by a robin he made when he was five.
Anyone seeing him down at the bowling alley will wonder if he's ever going to reach six.
And talking of glorious German cakeyness, Markus (who has an advantage in the German cake stakes being German himself) baked these unprepossessing yet utterly fabulous and unpronounceable spiced ginger squares. Honestly, they tasted wonderful. Pure Christmas Heaven.
Phil went down the cupcake route and made sexist cupcakes with flowers for the girls (and plenty of alcohol in the cream). By the look of the uneven brown tops his oven is about as reliable as mine, but they sure tasted scrummy.
Dale gives good truffle. Damned good, in fact. I loved the presentation, too: simple yet effective … and worse than crack cocaine for a truffle-hound such as myself.
Erin apologised in advance for her biscuits but she had no need to; they were tasty and crisp and ever so slightly disturbing in that the topping was kind of sticky and jelly-like and stretched across the office like mozzarella. Bizarre gets good marks in my book.
Emma knows what sells. Good gooey chocolate sponge is never going to go out of fashion. A nice dark chocolate topping and a sexily seventies black cherry filling. Does anyone else (this side of the Pond) remember those seventies staples when we were clawing our way out of austerity: prawn cocktail and Black Forest Gateau? No meal was complete without them. This brought back all manner of memories.
Time for the capo di tutti capi: Robert the Big Boss made both Christmas Tree biscuits and fudgey chocolate brownies and both were delicious.
I was most impressed with the crunchiness of his biscuits. So many people these days go for the soggy yet enticingly over-sweet American cookie instead of a good crisp English bickie. Yay for the boss (he sucked-up obsequiously).
Unt zo we come at last to Adrian's Christmas Village.
Snowmen and reindeer (with cute pretzel antlers) and yummy edible trees.
A feast of flamboyant festive fun. Every piece of this winter wonderland was made of sponge cake and lovingly (some might say insanely) iced and decorated. The snowmen had sunflower seeds for noses and mini-Oreo and chocolate button hats.
The cute, bonkers-eyed reindeer had Smartie noses, some kind of weird minty eyes and pretzel antlers. Adrian got through three big bags of pretzels making all the shapes.
So, the sponge cake might not have been as tasty as some entries (though the combination of salty pretzel and chocolate is always a winner), but the sheer hard work and the unhinged fanaticism on display has made this the bookies' favourite for the prize. There's still some uncertainty, however, as presentation and insanity were only two of the many categories to be judged; taste and texture might tip the balance in another direction, and any non-homemade item loses marks (such as Smarties, Oreos and pretzels). We shall see …
I particularly love the trees. How festive are these? Cute little cones of sponge cake speared with cocktail stick trunks and smothered in creamy goodness and pretty decorations. Whee!
So that's it for this year's festive baking extravaganza. Pass your judgement as you will; I'll announce the real winner after the party.
Next year they threaten a Festive Knit-Off, where we are all to knit an outlandish Christmas Jumper (tasteless is what gets good scores here) and wear it at the 2012 Christmas party.
Ye Gods!
Merry Christmas, Blogville!
Adrian spent all night making his Christmas Village (and the whole of the previous day fretting and worrying about it) and it's currently the hot tip for the top prize, but we shall find out who won later today at the dreaded Christmas Party.
More of Adrian's Christmas Village at the end of the post.
Appearances can be deceptive. These are not dog biscuits but are allegedly Christmas Cracker-shaped cookies. The squidgy poo stuff is chocolate, though from the taste I suspect it was cooking chocolate rather than anything edible.
Luke made these and I actually ate one (the down side to being in the competition is that you have to judge EVERY entry, even if you don't want to). It wasn't too bad in a bland, biscuity type of way, but it didn't make me feel at all festive.
Anyone seeing him down at the bowling alley will wonder if he's ever going to reach six.
Snowmen and reindeer (with cute pretzel antlers) and yummy edible trees.
A feast of flamboyant festive fun. Every piece of this winter wonderland was made of sponge cake and lovingly (some might say insanely) iced and decorated. The snowmen had sunflower seeds for noses and mini-Oreo and chocolate button hats.
So, the sponge cake might not have been as tasty as some entries (though the combination of salty pretzel and chocolate is always a winner), but the sheer hard work and the unhinged fanaticism on display has made this the bookies' favourite for the prize. There's still some uncertainty, however, as presentation and insanity were only two of the many categories to be judged; taste and texture might tip the balance in another direction, and any non-homemade item loses marks (such as Smarties, Oreos and pretzels). We shall see …
So that's it for this year's festive baking extravaganza. Pass your judgement as you will; I'll announce the real winner after the party.
Next year they threaten a Festive Knit-Off, where we are all to knit an outlandish Christmas Jumper (tasteless is what gets good scores here) and wear it at the 2012 Christmas party.
Ye Gods!
Merry Christmas, Blogville!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Office Christmas Bake-Off: Part 1
I had no idea …
Invited to join in the Office Christmas Bake-Off I innocently baked a cake.
This one …
Had I been made aware at the outset of the vicious cut-throat world of workplace baking I'd have run screaming from the kitchen.
The sheer eyeball-gouging, face-clawing ambition of my otherwise sane colleagues has revealed a new and scary world and robbed me of my cakey innocence.
What can a man do in the face of such festive fanaticism? Such belligerent baking? Such …
Well, You can judge for yourselves over the next couple of days.
The official results will be announced at the Office Christmas Party on Wednesday. If I survive that I shall let you know who won. In the meantime you can cast your votes for looks and presentation. Unfortunately you can't taste any as we ate the lot (not such a wise move in some cases as you shall see).
My own personal favourite was this entry, from Chris (last year's winner with a lot to live up to).
Okay, so he bought the boxes, which marks him down, but the sheer excellence of his pastry blew my tastebuds clean out the room. The man is a diva.
Get this …
Cute baskets of pastry leaves contained a home-made pistachio mincemeat (oh, yes, you heard me - and boy howdy it was as good as it sounds) topped with a bitter chocolate and pistachio granache, finished with those exquisite little pastry holly leaves and berries.
Boffo! Top marks for taste and texture. I could eat these every day and never grow tired of them (though I'd be even fatter than I am now).
These were nice.
Emily assured us that the gold paint was not the car-retouching stuff in the rattly cans, but was in fact edible.
Unfortunately she ran out of spray paint when she was only half-way through so the rest are covered in choccy things.
The gold ones were white chocolate-coated truffles and they were smegging gorgeous.
Cassie recently spent two weeks making a beautiful model of a new building for a sports car museum. Tragically, she built it from wood and cardboard when she'd have impressed the client a whole lot more had she made it from gingerbread.
It was a shame when we demolished her little witch's cottage but soooo gingery. Yum!
Not all the bakers showed such talent.
I'll say this for the other David's skills in the kitchen: for a baker, the man sure can bowl. He's a monster on the lanes on a Friday lunchtime but perhaps he should work on that rather than be allowed anywhere near a kitchen from now on.
When your cupcakes weigh more than your car it's time to put down the whisk and step away from the mixing bowl. And when you decide to accompany your lead-filled baked weapons with an earthquake-demolished poo sculpture I'm afraid the votes for presentation are going to be pretty thin on the ground.
Kellie's presentation might not have been up there with the best, but wait until one of those balls hits your tastebuds, bud.
Up top of the picture we have chocolate fudge, which was both chocolatey and fudgey, but those balls at the bottom …
Woohoo!
Advertised as mere chocolate truffles they made my mouth do backflips. Wow! I asked her what the secret ingredient was and she said simply "peanut butter."
I have the recipe now. I am SO gonna pig out on these all over the holidays.
Micro-cupcakes came from Jill's kitchen. And darned yummy they were, too. Three colours for three very alcoholic flavours.
Sophie got high marks for some awesome Rocky Roads. Not particularly original and containing some suspiciously non-homemade ingredients they were still bloody delicious.
I know he's a senior partner and my immediate boss but Stuart needs to be told that no matter how much gin and vodka he puts into his snowballs, mint-flavoured fondant (even very well made mint-flavoured fondant such as this) will always feel and taste like toothpaste.
Well, that's the opening nine entries for you to cast your finely judged votes upon. The second nine will follow tomorrow and then after Wednesday's party I'll let you know the official results.
Invited to join in the Office Christmas Bake-Off I innocently baked a cake.
Had I been made aware at the outset of the vicious cut-throat world of workplace baking I'd have run screaming from the kitchen.
The sheer eyeball-gouging, face-clawing ambition of my otherwise sane colleagues has revealed a new and scary world and robbed me of my cakey innocence.
What can a man do in the face of such festive fanaticism? Such belligerent baking? Such …
Well, You can judge for yourselves over the next couple of days.
The official results will be announced at the Office Christmas Party on Wednesday. If I survive that I shall let you know who won. In the meantime you can cast your votes for looks and presentation. Unfortunately you can't taste any as we ate the lot (not such a wise move in some cases as you shall see).
Okay, so he bought the boxes, which marks him down, but the sheer excellence of his pastry blew my tastebuds clean out the room. The man is a diva.
Get this …
Cute baskets of pastry leaves contained a home-made pistachio mincemeat (oh, yes, you heard me - and boy howdy it was as good as it sounds) topped with a bitter chocolate and pistachio granache, finished with those exquisite little pastry holly leaves and berries.
Boffo! Top marks for taste and texture. I could eat these every day and never grow tired of them (though I'd be even fatter than I am now).
Emily assured us that the gold paint was not the car-retouching stuff in the rattly cans, but was in fact edible.
Unfortunately she ran out of spray paint when she was only half-way through so the rest are covered in choccy things.
The gold ones were white chocolate-coated truffles and they were smegging gorgeous.
It was a shame when we demolished her little witch's cottage but soooo gingery. Yum!
I'll say this for the other David's skills in the kitchen: for a baker, the man sure can bowl. He's a monster on the lanes on a Friday lunchtime but perhaps he should work on that rather than be allowed anywhere near a kitchen from now on.
When your cupcakes weigh more than your car it's time to put down the whisk and step away from the mixing bowl. And when you decide to accompany your lead-filled baked weapons with an earthquake-demolished poo sculpture I'm afraid the votes for presentation are going to be pretty thin on the ground.
Up top of the picture we have chocolate fudge, which was both chocolatey and fudgey, but those balls at the bottom …
Woohoo!
Advertised as mere chocolate truffles they made my mouth do backflips. Wow! I asked her what the secret ingredient was and she said simply "peanut butter."
I have the recipe now. I am SO gonna pig out on these all over the holidays.
Well, that's the opening nine entries for you to cast your finely judged votes upon. The second nine will follow tomorrow and then after Wednesday's party I'll let you know the official results.
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