"Roadkill Stew"

A.K.A. "Burgoo"

Thank you Steve! - whom you will recognise as my hard-working subconscious - for throwing up this word in my brain earlier this morning.

     Actually that reads badly - let that read "promoting" instead of "throwing up", which has unfortunate connotations, especially when dealing with comestibles.

     Your Humble Scribe got into work early enough that he was able to indulge his curiosity about 'Burgoo', which he was fairly certain was a variety of porridge.  Art!

My hero!
(We shall come back to this)

     Of course the first step in researching anything is to Google for a picture, and do you know, Burgoo is not a porridge.  Art!

     You know, this looks like the kind of comfort stew you need when the nights draw in and the temperature drops.  What constitutes Ol' Roadkill Stew?  O I thought you'd never ask!  Let a Kentuckian recipe explain further:

Burgoo dates to before the Civil War and as legend has it, was invented by a French chef. Like a mulligan stew, it's sort of a empty-the-fridge recipe. Burgoos typically have at least three different meats, and plenty of vegetables such as corn, okra, and lima beans.

     That's the American Civil Unpleasantness, in case you were wondering.  Eighteen-sixties, so a parvenu Johnny-cum-lately as far as Civil Unpleasantnesses go <English Civil Unpleasantness preens in all it's seventeenth century pride>.  The recipe people go on to say that people debate fiercely as to whether to cook it to a mush or have the ingredients remain recognisable.  You know, Conrad may have a crack at this on Sunday, after my constitutional amble down to the Co-Op.

Mushy version

     I wonder - would motley stew taste good*?

BOOJUM! Reviews Films

And probably television and theatre, for the reach of our jaundiced eye is not bounded by anything bar the curve of the horizon, matey.  In our own inimitable style, which is to say being incredibly literal, pedantic, hair-splitting and so on.  All of which we will overturn in a pico-second if we think it'll bring in more traffic**.  As we like to inform, if you want a proper film review go and check out fellow Comsat Angels fan Mark Kermode.  Art!

How to defeat a crocodile attack the Mark Kermode way!

"BOSS BABY 2": CONRAD IS ANGRY!  O SO ANGRY!  ALL THE ANGRY!!  Just so you know.  When asked at work how I was feeling, my answer was a seething expostulation of unbridled rage, because enough of YOU out there (you know who you are and hang your heads in shame) saw the first of these farragoes and thus it made enough of a profit to justify a second one.  And then people had the temerity to question my judgement.  "Because I am officially a Grumpy Old Man and I hate it on principle" since I don't need any nonsense like facts or reality to interrupt my thought processes.  Art!

A shield boss.  The closest you're getting

"RON'S GONE WRONG": Conrad was moderately intrigued by the bus poster for this cinematic offering, which whizzed by at speed, not allowing me to get a good view first time round.  "A ghost?" I pondered?  Well, it was obviously marketed at kids, so it wasn't going to be especially scary.  Not unless they wheeled in Anti-Barney.  Then - as Conrad's mind is wont to do when walking anywhere - I got to pondering.  Since whatever 'Ron' was consisted of a large white object with curves, perhaps it was a giant sentient mutant murderous ice-cream cone?  Reversing the usual pattern of consumption!  And then I recalled it was for kids.  No, Conrad, no ghoulish gory death on-screen.

     Hmmmm apparently Ron is a robot.  Art!

     You can see how I made my error in judgement, and I still think there's a market for a giant sentient murderous mutant ice-cream cone.  I can do you a treatment for £75,000.

"I LIKE HOW U MOVE": DO NOT PUT WORDS IN MY MOUTH! because Conrad does not.  This appears to be another of those wretched Dancing Reality shows that infest the airwaves.  Just wait until I take over - O how these programs will stop!  It's hard to dance when you're shackled into a chain-gang inside an uranium mine.

There will be NO mercy.  None.

     

The Latest In My Never-ending Conflict With First Bus

This is probably the end result of insulting Hermes, the Greek god responsible for transport, back in my days at Connexions.  One to bear a grudge, Hermes.

     Today I trammed into and out of Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell (weather was good today), which takes a mere twenty-five minutes, half the time those wretches at Worst Bus take.  There's no traffic jams or traffic lights on the tramway, and it doesn't matter how many people are waiting to get on or off; they get about twenty seconds and that's it.  Art!

     That there is Newton Heath and Moston tram stop, and you surely noticed what's missing?  Correct, a second platform.  This means trams have to stop and allow the other service to call in, constituting a bottleneck of sorts.

     I was thus able to catch the 17:57 409 service, which is but a hop and a skip from a tram stop.  Before 18:00, you see, the buses are less unreliable than they are later on***.

     So here I am back at The Mansion, shoes off, Crocks on, typing up the blog and nearly finished at the time I'd normally be scowling into the house.

Finally -

Phew, Anna and I are still friends.  There was a worrying silence, you know, and I had a couple of bad dreams where she gave me the cold shoulder.  It turns out she's as bad at answering FB messages as I am answering phone texts.  We are going to get together for a natter and espresso, I confess O yes Parker, Fess.

Fess Parker.  I cheated a bit.  Sue me.

*  Just thinking aloud

**  For we are mercurial as well as having a jaundiced eye.  The other eye is quite well, thank you for asking.

***  There is NO WAY I am going to use the word 'reliable' in the same sentence as a Worst Bus service!