The man in the flat upstairs is playing a jaunty 6/8 polka version of "Flower of Scotland" on piano accordion. "F of S", for those who don't move in bagpiping circles, is the Scottish national anthem formerly known as a tear-sodden lament over the Battle of Culloden. Good work, man upstairs. It's time to reclaim the dirge. Sign me up for the polyphonic ringtone version of "When I am laid in earth".
While I'm in galloping curmudgeon mode, I may as well allude to the caprivorous lass beside whom I sat at dinner a couple of nights ago. Upon ordering the mixed goat platter (I kid you not), she turned to me, observed my offensive request for veg curry, and elucidated her contribution to the nation's biodiversity, to wit, personal consumption of as many different species as possible.
I am a vegetarian (and a deodorant-eschewing, sandal-wearing, beagle-fancying one at that). Sometimes I am an obstreperous vegetarian. It is not outside the realms of possibility that I might proselytise on behalf of my beastly brethren at the very moment of my unbeastly brethren's tucking into my beastly brethren at the dinner table. But on the occasion of this lass's tryst with the mixed goat platter, I was doing my best to subdue the inner obstreperist. There were other matters at stake, besides steak, and for once I was content to eat my fancy veg ragout while mixed goat gal ate her mixed goats.
She was not. Intent on converting me back to the paths of carnivorous righteousness, she told me An Hilarious Tale About A Goat, wherein a gentleman schoolfellow of hers was photographed, naked, astride an evidently distressed nanny, for Year 12 scavenger hunt purposes. Ha ha. Ha ha ha. And the RSPCA tried to press charges for buggery, whatever that is. Ha ha ha ha.
By the end of this delectable anecdote I was practically begging for a bowl of minced offal.
20 comments:
The Galloping Curmudgeon
The galloping curmudgeon, in full verbal flight,
Is a glorious and truly symphonic sight;
And when 'tis obstreporous, might rock the nation
With aforesaid ostreporous obstrepulations
On caprivorous lassies, and mobile phones
That murder Purcell with digital moans.
Yes, the galloping curmudgeon, in full verbal flight
Is a truly glorious, symphonic sight.
A rabidly vegan acquaintance likes to tell steak-eating people that they're "eating that poor animal's muscles", which makes her no end of fun on restaurant visits. Carnivore though I am, hurrah to you for sticking to your curried principles.
I would also like to note that your title has set off an incredible craving for lamingtons, a culinary evolution the British have not yet developed. Distressing!
Jennifer, I propose we resolve all our dietary differences over a plate of lamingtons. You give up lamb's fry, I'll give up deep fried tofu, and happily we'll wile away our remaining days in a diabetic stupour with Lord Lamington. All this, I'm pleased to say for the benefit of your vegan friend, can be accomplished with No Egg (TM) and Nuttelex.
Tim, you are a glorious, symphonic sight. You put the "ming" back into "rhyming couplet". Thank you. And enjoy your dinner.
That would be "while away" with a haitch.
Jennifer, let them eat cake!
a jaunty 6/8 polka version of "Flower of Scotland" on piano accordion. "F of S"
Oh dear! You are living with my mother's taste in music, when she isn't delving into Rod's American song book. I'm sure that it must give Thornbury a bit more added colour, assuming bohemian Thornbury has any room for added colour.
What an unpleasant woman! Did she regale the entire restaurant or were you the only lucky victim?
Well what did you expect, honestly? Ordering vegetables, pfft.
Michael Symons in last weekend's Australian (Review section) has written a book about the culinary history of Australia. He thinks "really bringing food to the fore would overcome many common misconceptions...Vegetarians would have to stop presenting theirs as the moral position, when it deliberately separates people from the metabolic universe."
So there you go.
The same neighbour was playing Whitney Houston, on very high rotation, last week. No one could say his musical tastes aren't eclectic.
Goat eater, to be fair, was nice enough in non-goat-related respects. She did happen to address her remarks to another up my end of the table, who happened to be a vegetarian specialist in Leibnitz and Newton. His sole remark on the subject, cutting in its understatement: "Some people are polite to vegetarians". I don't, for one, care whether people are polite to vegetarians or not. I don't think vegetarians are a voiceless or oppressed minority. But I'd rather that goats be left free to do their goaty thing.
The metabolic universe is the last refuge of the scoundrel. Or something. What is a metabolic universe, anyway?
A metabolic universe is one that's not sure whether it wants to be metaphoric or hyperbolic. A bit like my confusion over Lord Lamington: is he metaphoric or hyperbolic?
In the oft-quoted words of Prof. Wiki:
"Lamingtons are most likely named after Charles Baillie, 2nd Baron Lamington, who served as Governor of Queensland from 1896 to 1901. However, the precise reasoning behind this is not known, and stories vary. According to one account, the dessert resembled the homburg hats favoured by Lord Lamington. Another tells of a banquet in Cloncurry during which the governor accidentally dropped a block of sponge cake into a dish of gravy, and then threw it over his shoulder, causing it to land in a bowl of desiccated coconut or peanut butter. A diner thought of replacing the gravy with chocolate and thusly created the lamington known today."
I knew I shouldn't have dropped in. Now I want Lamingtons (you forgot the cream) a veg curry and deep fried tofu.
Have you ever sat between a raging vegan and a rabid carnivore? I didn't recover until the cheesecake dessert.
Oh, I was a bit confused. I thought the goat-eater was at another table. I imagined the conversation taking place across several tables. Maybe I just wanted to imagine it that way!
Wasn't Virginia Woolf's nickname "the Goat"? That's not really relevant, I know.
I had a terrible craving for lamingtons a few months back, so I scurried over to a nearby school fete (a few minutes away, so quicker than making them), only to find that they'd been replaced by this horrible Krispy Kreme crap! (Stomps foot to make the bad memory go away).
Whitney Housten! You lucky thing! The worst thing, though, is when it's the same song over and over again- I once had two young French men in the flat above, who insisted on playing that horrible Dido song about thanking people over and over again. At nights it would be accompanied by the giggles of young women.
Mark's neighbours really love Roxette!
Lets not mince words:
Your familiarity with the bagpipes is downright awesome - inspirational in fact. I must be honest, quite a large portion of the terminology and elaborate jargon in this one DID manage to make flight right over the top of my head!
I hope you don't mind - u got a mention in my blog too because I had to mention if I'd used blogger to socialise or go beyond the requirements of the task...
Not that I've been pretending to be nice all this time...
I wasn't paid, I swear!
Personally,I've been both the instigator of attacks on vegetarians, and somehow subsequently after becoming one - on the recieving end. Nice! I'm almost human again now and consuming JUST enough iron to keep me this side of anaemic :)
I would've made the goat platter dance for her....
Chat soon :)
K, it was the same song over and over. Whitney Housten always loved me at 6 o'clock, and she was still always loving me at 8 o'clock.
Krispy Kreme Krap says it all, really. I usually go for any combination of flour, fat and sugar, but the KKK is an insult to doughnuthood. Doughnuts should be warm, substantial and cinnamonny, not as effervescent and pointless as fairy floss.
Ginny Wolf was nicknamed "the Goat"? I had no idea. I need to actually read that fantastic Hermione Lee biography, rather than just looking stuff up in its index.
"Your familiarity with the bagpipes is downright awesome - inspirational in fact."
Suddenly, Alex, my life is flooded with a sense of fulfilled purpose. Thank you! Seventeen years of bagpipe playing, and finally someone tells me it's downright awesome. Bless you, lady.
Sorry about the jargon. I may well have made some of it up myself. "Caprivorous", for instance, could well be an L. Harlot neologism. It means "goat-eating" ("capra", from whence we get "capricious" and "caper", is Latin for "goat"). I toyed with "aigophagous", but gave it up as a lost cause.
Honoured to get an official blog mention.
You win. You have certainly suffered more than I have from the musical proclivities of your neighbours. I did once have neighbours who were fond of performing Irish dances in their yard, but that was downright entertaining.
I have not ever tried Krispy Kreme, but I know my stomach would certainly suffer if I did. It vexes me greatly that it seems to have taken over the cake stands at school fetes and functions. A matter of mere weeks ago I was living it up at a primary school arts and crafts fair and I couldn't get a cup cake for love or money!
I am fairly certain that VW was called "the goat" by her sister and I think LW may have used it too.
I am quite partial to the jam-and-cinnamon donut (no hole in the middle: it's filled with jam and plugged with more pastry). They should be eaten hot, of course, and good ones can be procured from a vendor at the footy every Saturday. (I went there once, okay?) Or the Victoria or Camberwell Markets.
Compared to that, Krispy Kreme is just slumming it.
I like jam donuts too and, at one point, I was buying six packs of them and demolishing them in almost one sitting. Tim has just reminded me that it's been too long between jam donuts.
I have a fairly low tolerance for fast food anyway. I once stayed with friends in the US and they would get it all the time, I think as a special treat for my being there. It put me in a terrible dilemma, since good manners dictated that I eat it, but then I was horrendously sick afterwards and good manners dictated that I conceal that too. The worst incident, though, was a humble jam donut from the train station in Boston.
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